whumpflash - Tumblr blog

whumpflash · 4 months

Text

Penumbra: Undertaken

cw: referenced whipping, referenced past torture/abuse

previous ///// masterlist /////

§•§•§

The Council had the decency to move the conversation indoors, away from the chilling salt winds and the eyes of the villagers. Tansy expected it was more due to the latter than the former; a council’s… counsel seemed a private matter when dealing with something such as this. Either way, they were grateful, doubly so when the men who moved Cerus showed no needless cruelty. The village hall they stepped into was a long and low building that looked newly constructed; the old structure that Tansy had grown up with must've been destroyed in the war.

Such was the way with most of the village, the place Tansy had once found so familiar. It nearly seemed they'd found the wrong place upon trying to return home. Everything had shifted; destroyed and rebuilt while they were away, streets walked by strangers who didn't seem to notice how the stones had changed.

Only now, Tansy was the stranger weren't they? It was a feeling they'd been inclined to ignore in the days since their return. The feeling of coming back from the war as a ghost. Walking streets that should be familiar, greeting faces they did not know. Returning to a home that wasn’t home anymore.

Driftwood carvings dangled from the hall's rafters far overhead. Fish and mermaids and shells and ships. Though their back stung terribly and they dreaded what the Council's final ruling on Cerus's life would be, the carvings sent a shimmer of something almost akin to hope through Tansy. A signal that the villagers felt safe to make things for the sake of making them; to create and not fear for a following destruction.

“You may sit, soldier,” said General Nisha, gesturing to one of the simple wooden benches that lined the hall. Tansy fell onto it gratefully, clasping their hands together in an effort to ignore how they shook. Cerus was placed beside them to kneel on the ground. They hoped the warmth of the building would do him some good, but knew it wouldn’t be enough. The man wouldn’t stop shaking, and now and then his whole body convulsed with a cough.

Aetha was the first to speak.

“The suffering you sought to ease is plain to see. Laying eyes upon the Shadow KIng as he is is enough to inspire my judgment of you.”

Tansy raised their head to look at her, squeezing the fingers of their left hand in their right, in such a way it was almost painful.

“It was unjust of the villagers to put you beneath the lash, but noble of you to spare the Shadow King from it. I see you blameless.”

Sree, speaking next, cleared her throat. “It seems you are guilty of nothing more than a soft heart. I see you blameless.”

Finally, Nisha faced them. “When I first heard tell of it, I was enraged to hear that a soldier who had fought to end the Shadow King was so easily turned into his service.” They swallowed, their brow creasing. “But looking upon him myself, I cannot blame you. Fear can turn a man to evil deeds, but you looked past your own. I see you blameless.”

Tansy let their shoulders sag in relief. How strange it would have been, to be pardoned for the crime of tending wounds. But at least the Council did not seem to view it as a crime. Could there be hope for Cerus after all?

“What of the Shadow King?” they ventured.

“I’d be a fool to call him blameless,” Nisha said.

“I’d be a fool to ask it of you,” they replied. “But surely he is undeserving of this.”

Aetha pressed her lips together. “His sentence has already been passed. He belongs to the people.”

“And you would let the people continue to abuse him?”

“It is the people who suffered at his hands, child,” Sree put in. “As cruel as it may be, it is a bed Cerus Hollowthorn made for himself.”

“There must be something—”

“Please,” Cerus croaked, and Tansy fell silent. “I beg of you, let me speak.”

The Council turned to his bowed form as one, silent save Nisha.

“Speak, shadow.”

His shoulders hunched in, his head dipping lower. “Alter my sentence. I deserve death, nothing more of this agony. Put me to death, as you should have done months before.”

“You do not command the law anymore, shadow,” Nisha growled, but Aetha held up her hand.

“Is that truly what you want? To die?”

“Have I not suffered enough to earn it?”

She furrowed her brow, a hand moving to cradle her chin. “I suppose it can be discussed—”

“No,” Tansy barked out before they could stop themselves, then hurried to adjust their tone. “Respectfully, Councilwoman, no.”

“You have something to say, soldier?” It was Nisha who addressed them, Aetha only watching the exchange with a curious expression.

"If Cerus was to die, it should have been upon his defeat,” Tansy said, making an effort to keep their voice even and calm. “Not now. Not by an executioner’s blade, nor by cold, nor starvation or blows. You sentenced him to live, did you not?”

NIsha frowned. “We did. And now he asks we repeal that. Would you go against his wishes? Condemn him to further pain?”

“No.” Tansy shook their head. "Let him carry out his sentence. Let him live. Let him serve. But gods, give him the means to do so.” They stood, ignoring the pain in their back. “Give him the winter to heal, give him protection from those who wish him harm. Give him food and proper clothing, for heaven's sake."

“And you believe he deserves all this?” Nisha asked.

“Do you believe any person doesn’t?” they said, unable to keep their voice from rising. “I ask not for luxuries, only the means to live without pain. Is that really more than he deserves?”

The whole of the Council was silent at this, and remained so for a good few minutes.

“Hm,” Sree said at last. “The Shadow King’s punishment was intended as retribution, not a torture. To have him properly outfitted to better serve the villages… I see no harm in it. Of Feyadel’s industries, he has served the mines and the sea. It would be an unfairness were we to cut him down before he could serve the fields.”

Aetha nodded. “It would be simple to send him to an inland village to farm, simpler still to provide him provisions to do so.”

“And who would enforce such a thing?” Nisha countered. “I will spare no guards for his sake.”

“I will do it,” Tansy said, and the words surprised even them.

“You would go to such lengths?” Nisha said. “For the very king you took up a sword to defeat?”

“He is not a king anymore.” Tansy said. “And he has been defeated.” They knelt beside Cerus, laying a hand on his shaking shoulder. “I will.”

The Shadow King peered at them past tangled dark hair. “I do not deserve this of you,” he said between rattling breaths.

“Deserve,” they repeated. “Such a funny word.”

Perhaps this was madness, to start anew alongside Cerus of all people. But then, why shouldn’t they? Their home was not their home anymore. Better to leave behind this village and all the ghosts it stirred within them. Better to finish what they’d started with Cerus, prove all they’d yet done wasn’t for nothing.

“I favor the idea,” Aetha said. “If my fellow Councilmembers approve, it will be done.”

“The Shadow King… Cerus shall take what time he needs to recuperate,” Sree said with a nod. “Then onward to carry on with his service. General?”

Nisha gave a curt nod. “It will be done.” Their mouth tightened at the corners. “Anger should not stand in the way of healing. Justice and vengeance are…difficult to separate, but it must be done.” They moved toward Tansy, offering a hand. “I still think you a fool, but I wish you luck,” they said, helping them to their feet.

“Thank you,” Tansy said, suppressing a wince.

“And as for you, Shadow King…”

Cerus seemed to shrink back as their voice turned on him.

“Will you serve? Give your breath to the land rather than give it up to an executioner?”

“I… I will,” Cerus murmured. “I will try.”

“And I will ensure the word is spread through the village,” Aetha said. “Should an incident such as this occur again…” Here she pulled a small sheet of parchment from her cloak, scrawling a message across it, then producing an inky seal to mark it with the sigil of the Council. “...You have our word in writing. Cerus Hollowthorn is not to come to further harm.”

She handed it to Tansy, who tucked it into their cloak pocket, bowing their head. “Thank you, Councilwoman.”

She smiled. “We’d best be off now. When you are ready to travel, the village of Unushya will be waiting to welcome you. They’re a few days’ journey west.”

“May your roads be smooth and your healing swift,” Sree said.

And with that, the Council left, and Tansy and Cerus were again alone. They went to his side, gently pulling him to his feet in such a way that his weight was supported on their shoulders. Careful though they were, some pressure still fell onto the fresh whip marks.

“Let us be getting home then,” they said through a wince. At last, they could rest. Their uncle would likely be shocked at their decision; they were still nearly in shock at it themselves, but an odd sense of ease came with it. A direction to heal in, for both them and Cerus. To grow and fear no destruction.

“Tansy,” Cerus said as they began the long walk home, his voice hardly a whisper. “You… I now owe everything to you.”

“All I ask is you make good on your word,” they said. “Serve. Heal. Do you think you can?”

“I think I should like to try. To heal, rather than to harm,” Cerus said. “I… Thank you.”

Their grimace, as they struggled through the chill air under his added weight, nearly turned to a smile. Should they have dreamed this moment a week ago, they would have woken laughing at its absurdity. Now, they could only imagine what awaited them at the end of the path. A warm bed and a hot meal. Though on the point of exhaustion, the thought kept them placing one foot painstakingly in front of the other, until…

“I don’t think you are in such a condition to hold him on your own,” said a voice, and Tansy glanced up to see the woman from the apothecary, offering a small smile. “May I assist?”

Winded from the walk thus far, Tansy could only nod, and she fell into step on Cerus’s other side, easing some of the weight from their shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be bearing weight with those wounds,” came another voice, this one from a man Tansy did not recognize. “Let me.”

And reluctantly, they slipped away from Cerus, letting the stranger take their place, watching carefully in anticipation of some trick, some ploy to hurt Cerus. But the man only walked on.

Others came before they reached the outskirts of town, dropping a cloak over Cerus’s still-shivering form, pressing a package of dried fish into Tansy’s hands, offering words as the little group passed.

“To think such kindness could come from the war.”

“I did not realize they’d hurt him so.”

“May your courage heal you swiftly.”

It seemed as if the hatred had vanished in the span of an hour, but that wasn’t truly the case, was it? The hatred was still there, but it had been pushed aside by compassion, the other true nature that lay at the center of a human, the more powerful nature. It was what had driven Tansy from the moment they’d laid eyes on Cerus; a thing that was brighter than anger or fear. They could not pretend they’d been the spark to bring it to light within the rest of the village, but they knew their breath had strengthened the flames.

Tansy murmured their thanks as the herbalist and the stranger helped Cerus into bed, and thanked the old woman again when she looked their wounds over and ordered them to rest. Rest they would, settled on their bedroll beside a now-sleeping Cerus. And despite the physical pangs of exhaustion and pain, the unrest that had been coiling in their gut for so long had finally faded.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tansy knew they’d made the right choice.

§•§•§

tag list:

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @pigeonwhumps , @itsmyworld23 , @andromeda-liske , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @haro-whumps , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpedydump , @mannerofwhump , @delicateprincepaper , @sonder35 , @currentlyinthesprial

#an update at last? its a Christmas miracle #a little cheesy and sappy but tis the seaon lol #i cant only show the hateful side forever. there will always be the kind too #penumbra: shadow king #royal whumpee #villain whumpee

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whumpflash · 4 months

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Acacia Aneura: Good Luck

cw: referenced slavery

previous ///// masterlist

×××

Twelve bullets. Skye said he'd do his best to come back, but not to go after him, and he'd left her twelve bullets and the gun. At first Evyr had protested, said it was stupid to go after that dickhead scav without it, but he wouldn't be swayed.

“Give me a few days,” he’d told her. “If I don’t come back, head east for the nearest scav camp. I’ve been there before, they’ll take care of you.”

It was all because he'd felt bad, after leaving the other guy tied up in the desert, so the next morning they'd gone back to where they left him, just to make sure he wasn't gonna die. But when they got there, he was gone. His knife, the one he'd threatened her with, had been left behind, and the look that crossed Skye's face told her he wasn't about to shrug it off and forget. It didn't take much asking to learn a team of slavers had been through, and they'd spent the better part of a week learning more.

Evyr knew better than to complain. There was something in Skye's eyes she'd only ever caught glimpses of. Something sad, sharp, and determined. Evyr didn’t know what it was. Obviously she hadn’t known Skye his entire life. She knew he’d been something of a wanderer, even before they'd met. And before that… he didn't talk much about before that. He had a lot of scars that didn't fit into any of his wasteland stories, but he didn't really talk about those and Evyr didn’t want to ask him.

This was just like that. The look that came to him now and then was just another kind of scar, and if looking for that scav made it feel better, she’d try and help.

It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

But Skye hadn't come back. That wasn't really something she'd considered, because Skye always came back. That was how the world worked. He ran off to do something dangerous and heroic and brave, and he told her to stay safe and hidden, and then he came back. Sometimes bruised and bleeding, sometimes almost too exhausted to stand, but he came back.

What was she supposed to do, now that he hadn't? What kind of monsters could manage to hold him down?

She waited almost a whole week to be sure, eyes glued to the horizon, afraid that if she left, he'd never be able to find her, despite all the promises he'd made and his orders to find the camp and stay safe. Once that time had passed, and she was still alone, the fear of what could've happened to Skye was bigger than the fear of anything else.

He wasn't dead. She was more sure of that than anything else. He wasn't dead, but he needed her.

He said it a lot, usually when she did something stupid.

"Don't go making enemies you can't beat, Evyr, you know I need you." And then he'd mess up her hair and she'd make a face at him and act all mad that he was treating her like a kid, even though they both knew she wasn't mad at all.

But this time was different, this time it was real.

He'd been heading to the market where they'd taken the scav. That was a place to start, but she had to be careful. That would be the hardest part, being careful. Usually Skye was careful enough for both of them. How was she supposed to be careful anyway? Careful would be staying away, and she couldn't do that.

Well, careful could also mean having a gun. Yeah, that was good enough, right? Skye had taught her how to aim it and load it and clean it. She'd also learned pretty quickly how people were more likely to do what you wanted if they thought you were going to shoot them.

Evyr carefully pulled out the magazine, counted the twelve bullets for the millionth time, then clicked it back into place and slid the gun in its holster.

Okay. She could do this. The market was to the west, and it sat in the shadow of one of the floating cities when the sun was going down. She'd find the market, and tell the people there to take her to Skye or else. Maybe he was still there. Maybe he'd eaten bad rations or hurt his leg, and that was why he hadn't come back yet.

She ignored the memory of him limping back into camp with a splinted ankle and a makeshift crutch. She tried to ignore the thoughts of every other bad thing it could possibly be, but they were too sharp.

If someone took him, I'll just shoot them and we can go home. If someone hurt him, they'll regret it.

She repeated those words under her breath as she walked. The market took a long time to get to without a speeder, and she was half-worried Skye would be long gone before she even got there. But that couldn’t be right, right? She’d find him, she knew it.

After hours and hours, a line of color formed on the horizon, shaping itself into tents as she got closer, surrounded by little shiny specks like scrap metal scattered in the dirt.

Evyr hadn’t been to the market before. Well, she’d been to other markets. Tiny little markets in the scav camps, and a few bigger ones in the settlements. This market though, she and Skye stayed away from. It definitely wasn’t a safe spot, and he’d told her as much before he’d left for it.

It was where people got sold alongside rations and scrap. Usually scavs, from what she’d heard. Bought up by factory owners in the settlements, or sometimes rich folk from the floating cities. Stolen from their own lives and made to live for another’s.

Evry was slow walking up to the place, one hand resting on the handle of the gun and finding comfort there. If Skye could do it, she could do it. Skye was being brave for a scav dickhead he didn’t even really know. She could be brave for Skye.

The shiny specks turned out to be speeders, parked in the dust around the market. Her heart spun right up to her throat when she spotted Skye’s among them, its beat-up orange body unmistakeable. Even still, she ran to it, just to be certain. Sure as sun, the big old dent from when she’d tried to drive it and drove it right into a rock face was there, along with familiar scratches and scrapes in the paint. The one that looked like a dog and the one that looked like an eye.

Skye had called her creative when she’d pointed those out; said she could’ve been an artist. Skye… Skye was here then, wasn’t he? He had to be, he wouldn’t just wander off without his speeder.

He’s okay. He has to be okay.

Evyr set her hand on the gun and squared her shoulders, putting on a determined expression as she marched towards the collection of tents.

The market seemed emptier than markets usually were, even the small ones. She couldn’t see any hints of Skye just by looking from the outside, so that meant she’d have to go in. Under the shade of the tarps, people wandered here and there, some talking to each other, some tidying their wares.

Evyr walked deeper in, eyes darting every which way to look for any sign of Skye. No one seemed to pay her any attention, which was good. Maybe the gun intimidated them.

After walking around what must be the entire place without seeing Skye, Evyr knew she’d have to ask someone. Which was probably the only real scary part. Usually Skye did the asking and talking. Skye always knew what to say. She sure didn’t, but she’d have to figure something out.

A little group of grown-ups was sat at a stall, drinks in their hands, and Evyr decided to approach them. They didn’t seem as busy as the ones who were cleaning, so maybe they’d help?

One of them, a woman, was leaning on the stone slab that made up the stall's table, skin tan and spotted with freckles, arms thick with muscle. Out of all of them there, she looked the most relaxed, an easy smile on her face as she stared at the horizon. Evyr moved as close as she dared.

“Um… hi,” she started. The woman’s eyes darted over to her, the color a rusty orange that nearly matched her hair.

“Well look at that,” she said. “A baby scav. What are you doing at the markets, kid? You lost?”

Evyr wanted to shrink under her gaze, but made herself not do that. “I’m… um, I’m not lost. I lost someone else.”

“That so?” the woman said, cocking her head.

“Yeah,” Evyr said. “I think he might be here somewhere.”

“Hell of a place to lose someone,” the woman muttered. “You know where you’re standing, don’t you kid? This is the flesh market. If your friend was taken here, he’s probably long gone.”

“He wasn’t taken, he came on his own,” Evyr said. “And his speeder’s still out there, so he’s gotta be here.”

The woman hmmed. “Must’ve been recent if no one’s scrapped his vehicle yet.”

Evyr nodded. “It was a week ago, or near it.”

“A week…” She tapped her chin. “Can’t say I can remember any fights among buyers in the last week, or anything that would keep a man from his speeder.”

Evyr scowled. “He wasn’t a buyer.”

“Oh? Not a buyer, not a slave… likely not a slaver either. Just what is your friend, kid?”

Evyr swallowed, her eyes dropping to her dust-coated boots. Telling someone who was probably a slaver that Skye had come to bust out a captive probably wasn’t a good idea. Definitely not a careful one. “I don’t know,” she said. “He… he was looking for someone too.”

The woman chuckled. “Well, I hope he found ‘em. Tell me, what’s your friend look like? Maybe I can recall him.”

She brightened, lifting her chin again. “He’s tall, and really tan. He’s got a beard, and hair to about here.” She gestured to her shoulders. “Brown with some gray. His eyes are blue.” What else could she say? Any detail could be important. “Oh! He has an earring. Just one. It’s blue too.”

The woman was tapping her chin again. “Hm. When you say tall, what does that mean? You’re not exactly reachin’ the top shelf there.”

“Taller than you,” Evyr said, and the woman laughed.

“I think I do recall such a man. Stupid fellow, really. Came charging in to swing at a buyer.”

Evyr’s eyes widened, her hand falling on the gun handle again like she could use it to scare bad news away. “You… he did?” But if Skye had made it here and found the scav and attacked whoever’d bought him, why hadn’t he come back? If he’d succeeded, he would’ve come back, so that meant…

“What happened to him?” she asked in a small voice. He couldn’t be dead. Skye couldn’t die, it was impossible.

The woman shrugged. “Buyer took him away. Can’t say what he did with him, but last I saw him he was breathing.”

Evyr’s own breath came back to her. It was impossible. No one could kill Skye. “The… the buyer took him?” she said. “Where?”

“He was a real moneybags. Took him up to the floating cities.” For a moment, she almost looked sympathetic. “Sorry kid, but your friend’s long gone.”

But not dead. It wasn’t over yet. Floating city or not, Evyr would get him back. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll find him.”

The woman barked out a laugh that seemed more surprised than anything else. “Damn kid, you got guts. What’s your name?”

“Evyr.”

“Sonora,” the woman replied, leaning back on the bar and taking her drink in hand to raise it. “Good luck finding your friend, Evyr," she said, then brought the cup to her mouth, taking a swig.

"You’re gonna need it.”

×××

@kixngiggles @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @dont-look-me-in-the-eye

#evyr chapter! time for her to begin her hero's journey while her father figure gets tortured and dehumanized!#acacia aneura #post apocalypse whump #writing

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whumpflash · 5 months

Text

Demon's Haven 16

a guy who is just an idiot

—

masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, whumpee thinking caretaker is new whumper, self-harm references (he's aggravating his own injuries), vague dissociation references

—

I just wanted them to respect me.

Words he’d never dared to utter out loud before. Hell was a vicious place where weakness wasn’t tolerated, and vulnerability got you nowhere. So he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself, and to manifest his more…envious desires in other ways.

He’d never have admitted it to himself if all this hadn’t happened. He spent long hours working in his study just to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t have to think of such things. And yet there it was, the undeniable proof that he was weak. That he had to resort to base means in order to try and garner respect when his other siblings were capable of it just by virtue of their very existence.

Hah, virtue.

His brothers had the lesser demons looking up to them as if they were gods and all they had to do was walk into a room. Pride especially was a perfect example of this. He was like the sun—he drew attention to himself as if his presence was itself a gravitational pull. Envy hated it. He wanted it. He didn’t have the ability for that sort of thing and had to take the scraps of attention that he was owed, grasping and strangling.

He thought the other demons would be awed or at least cowed by his display of brutality in the human realm, but then Lust had gone and one-upped him without even trying. Envy, as always, faded into the background. His actions forgotten by all the people he wanted to have remembered, yet was brought up again now only to serve as a reminder of his failings.

It was such a stupid farce. All of it.

He clenched his hair in his hands, disregarding the broken fingers. He let the pain consume him. He wanted to disappear.

Throwing his hands down in frustration did nothing to stop the riotous feelings welling inside. Did nothing to stop the voice of the angel. That burning, stinging, cooing voice. It told him he was a sinner. That he should suffer, that he should be punished, that he should live his days in fear and regret and utter misery. The angel made him believe it to be true.

The angel’s voice played out in his thoughts, telling him to be afraid.

Warm hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Envy drew in a sharp intake of breath, his gaze locking onto the witch’s.

Oh, Haven.

Why had he told her who he was? She was going to hurt him now, surely. She said she wouldn’t—many times, in fact—but how could he believe that? How could she not want to?

And yet. She held his wrists in her hands but did not squeeze the bruises there. She did not yank him forward or send him tumbling to the floor. She continued to surprise him by showing familiar actions that usually preceded violence and replacing them with kindness and Envy didn’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to be free of pain. He wanted to be free of his thoughts. He wanted to pay for his sins. He wanted to rest.

He tried to think of what to say as an excuse for his actions, and what had tumbled off his lips were truer thoughts than any he had said in years. Perhaps ever. He struggled to think of anyone he’d ever told his deepest secrets to and came up blank. Such was his life, what he used to think so highly of and yet what crumbled in mere moments.

He was crying again, goddammit. His eyes stung and the back of his throat burned, the feeling distinct from that of holy water being forced down it. Sharper, deeper. Utterly humiliating.

Haven wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Envy allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he savored the touch. When had anyone ever touched him like that? Like he was something worthy of being held so gently, like he was more precious than all the gemstones in his court?

“You’re bleeding again.”

Envy blinked dumbly at her in response to the statement. Finally catching up after a moment too long, he processed the words and turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lashes from the silver whip had turned the gauze a cherry-red. He was in less pain than he’d been in since…well, the beginning of his imprisonment, so this could actually have been seen as an improvement that he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with utmost intelligence. Clearly.

Haven settled herself on the bed next to him, more carefully than before. He knew it wasn’t because of his injuries, but because of who he was. She was afraid of him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she jumped from the bed, instinct urging her to run from him. He almost wished she had. He only wanted her to be happy, not afraid.

But he was a selfish creature, and he couldn’t stop himself from the need that raged in him, that which made him desperately not want to be left alone. It was the same desire that made him grab her wrist earlier, and what had compelled him to think he could order her to stay while he bathed even when he knew she would have preferred to be elsewhere. He just couldn’t stop himself from causing problems for her.

And know she knew who he was. What he’d done.

Worse, she was a witch. She was of the ilk that he had carelessly slaughtered for amusement and recognition, and now Envy was at the mercy of her decisions. He wondered if she would take revenge for her kind that had died at his hands, or at those of his brothers’. The thought made his chest ache something fierce, but he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t have the right. After everything, he was still the same awful being that he was always was and he didn’t want her to treat him any differently than she had been.

He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness. Oh, he knew. The angel had made sure that he believed every awful thing she ever said about him, but by everything he was borne of, he wanted nothing more than for Haven to remain as she was.

“I’ll need to stitch them. The wounds on your back,” she said to him.

There was no malice in her voice, nor fear. The second emotion, however, was plain on her face even as she tried to hide it.

Envy nodded listlessly. “Alright.”

He realized this going to be a long night and that he wouldn’t get to drift off so soon. If he got lucky, she’d let him sleep while she worked. He might even be able to—he’d gotten lots of practice in sleeping in uncomfortable positions while in terrible pain.

Envy nodded, the motion stilted. He braced himself for what was to come and whether or not the witch—Haven, lovely Haven, such an apropos name—would take this as her opportunity to turn on him.

She didn’t, at least not right at that moment. Instead, she pursed her lips, forming them into a mildly displeased moue. Envy winced and cursed his tendency to nod rather than reply with actual words. That must have been what had done it. She was angry with him now for not being treated with the proper respect, of course. Because he was a demon prince, fallen so far, now at the mercy of those once considered beneath him and of course, of course she would want him to demonstrate just how much their positions had changed. He was just so tired, so it was easier to opt for a nod rather than to force the sounds from his throat that was still so raw from begging, screaming, pleading, pleading—

“We should get some rest.”

Haven set her hands down on her lap and stood, then brushed off her skirts. Envy watched her. Blinked once, twice. The witch began collecting the bandages and rolls of gauze from the bed.

“What?” Envy asked, confused.

Haven paused, then looked at him. “We’re both tired, you’re not going to bleed out, and I’m sure you would appreciate not being stuck with a needle while I try to sew you up half-asleep. We can do it tomorrow.”

Envy couldn’t seem to process the information he was hearing. She was going to let him sleep? Not just that, but to let him sleep unhindered by additional pain? What was the catch?

Haven bent down to pick up a bandage roll that had fallen, but Envy slipped off the bed to get it for her. He didn’t account for the fact that he could barely use his legs, and ended up falling ever-so-gracefully to the floor like an utter disgrace. His knees hit first, cracking loudly on the wood slats, and the rest of him followed soon after, crumpling like wet paper. His chest pitched forward and he, thankfully, turned his head to the side so that his cheek hit the floor instead of cracking his chin on it, though it still smarted. The pain shot into his broken ribs had him keening, sending out a high-pitched whine as if he’d become a tea kettle. The angel had humiliated him plenty, but this really did it for him.

He at least managed to wrap his fingers uselessly around the stray bandage he’d meant to offer to Haven.

The witch herself had released her burden entirely, dropping her arms to her sides so that all the gauze she’d previously gathered now fell at her feet and rolled away, adding to the existing mess on the floor. She knelt in front of Envy and gingerly placed her hands on his upper arms, and she was saying something he couldn’t make out. The world was incessantly loud all of a sudden, ringing in his ears. Pain, his only sensation.

“H-help—” Envy croaked.

Fear rose in his throat, burned in his belly, and inflamed the space of his chest. It beat against the inside of his damaged ribcage, fighting to get free as if it were a trapped animal. Envy thought it was kind of funny, to think of it like that. To understand and sympathize with an emotion itself, because he too, was once a trapped animal.

His hands shook.

“-vy! Envy! Your Highness! Prince whatever!”

The witch called out to him. Envy struggled to take in a breath. He felt her rubbing her thumbs up and down where she held his arms, and that too, made an emotion well inside him. He couldn’t place the name of it.

“P-prince whatever,” he said, once he could take in a full breath.

His throat felt raw and scratchy.

“I didn’t know what to call you,” Haven replied, sheepishly.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a wobbly smile. Envy tried to maneuver his lips into doing the same, but he felt…odd. Disconnected from his body in a way that was not unfamiliar to his time spent in the cell with the angel, on the days where he would go someplace faraway into his mind when the pain became too much to bear. Even before, to a lesser degree, the numbness would come for him without warning. He saw it as being better than the torture, at least.

“Are you…” Haven said, but trailed off and bit her lip.

“Fine.”

Envy was not fine, had never been fine, and likely would never be fine again for as long as he lived. But he was just that—living, and that was all that likely mattered to the witch, if she even cared at all.

He regretted that last thought when he saw her face all scrunched up, appearing at once both sad and irate. Her eyes became red and misty, though no tears fell. She bunched her hands into fists at her sides and Envy thought she meant to hit him, though she only glared.

“Why did you do that?” she yelled.

Envy opened his mouth, but found he didn’t have an answer, or even any idea to what she was referring.

“I—” He remembered the bandage roll grasped loosely in his damaged fingers. “Oh.”

He held it up to Haven as far as his arm would give him the strength to, which to his dismay, wasn’t more than a few inches.

“I wanted to help,” he said.

Haven put a hand to her face and closed her eyes, then exhaled. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened. Envy noticed her unclench her fists and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Just focus on getting better. Okay? That’s how you can help.”

—

(taglist in reblogs)

#demon whumpee #whump writing

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whumpflash · 5 months

Text

Demon's Haven 15

i know I said i was going on hiatus but I suddenly felt compelled to write more of this so here ya go. its what you've all been waiting for ✨

—

masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, past murder, brief depictions of past gore and suicide, church mention

—

This was a mistake. This had all been a huge, grand mistake.

Haven wished it were instead a nightmare, one she could wake up from and find herself in any other situation other than the one she was presently in. But this was no mere dream, just the foolish consequences of her misplaces sympathies.

She scrambled off the bed with such ferocity that her feet got tangled in the blankets, ankles twisting around the sheets. She stumbled out of them, barely managing not to fall flat on her face, before darting away and spinning to face the demon she’d let into her home.

The demon prince.

Oh, what a monumental fool she was. It’d been a bad idea from the start, summoning him in the first place, but she’d wanted to try something she never had before, to be involved in the secret goings-on of the witches covens. It was just supposed to be a simple deal. A simple spell. And now look where that had gotten her.

She shouldn’t have gone back to the cave after that first night. She should have just given up, let the spell time out, and forgotten about the whole thing.

The demon would have been unleashed on the world if she had just ignored him, though. That certainly wasn’t a possibility, not one she would have considered with any sort of demon, prince or not.

She could have sent him back. It would have been the smart thing to do, to undo her ritual and release the demon back into the depths of hell.

But then…gone back to whatever torment he’d been summoned from.

Envy.

She looked at him, on his knees amid her mussed bedcovers. His hands shook at his sides. He swallowed, likely trying to prevent himself from launching into another bout of tears like the one she’d just calmed him down from.

One of the seven demon princes. Weeping in her arms like a babe.

Neither of them spoke. Neither moved, trapped in the moment of stilled silence so potent that she could have sliced through the air with a knife and divided it into sections to serve like a pie. She wondered if demons did that to people. She knew what this particular demon had done to witches like her.

She wondered briefly if this had all been a ruse. That he meant to take advantage of her sympathy to draw her into the summoning circle, and instead of attacking at the earliest moment, he’d lead her into making a soul bond with him that would chain her to him for as long as her mortal soul existed. She shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have cared. He was going to kill her. He wasn’t just any demon, but a demon prince, a lord of Hell, one of the most powerful demons in existence and he…

…was bowing to her on her unmade bed.

Haven sighed, releasing some of her fear with the breath. Guilt swelled to replace the gaps it left in her.

How could she have thought that?

Prince or not, the demon—Envy—was hurt, and needed her help. There was no faking it. Something had happened, and it was only her around to help.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, over and over.

He bent forward at the waist in much the same way as she’d seen him in the summoning circle, legs folded beneath him and likely aggravating his broken ribs. It had to be excruciating, and yet he said not a word of it, and only continued apologizing to her and begging not to be hurt.

Haven shook her head. No, this was definitely not a ploy.

“It—it’s okay,” she said, repeating the same words she used to try and comfort him earlier. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

It felt different now, saying those words. Comforting him like she had been. She’d known all along he was a demon and she knew the reputation they had, yet she had helped him anyways despite all that. Demons were vicious, repugnant, evil. That’s what everyone said about them, summoner or not. Haven had disregarded all the carefully curated knowledge she’d studied so that she could take care of one, and here he was, turning out to be a demon prince.

And here she was, telling him she wouldn’t hurt him.

What a ridiculous situation.

The demon—Envy, she reminded herself—peered up at her. Still in that painful bow, his eyes locked on hers from in between strands of his hair. They held no malice. Haven could see no avarice in their emerald depths. Nothing malevolent at all.

“Are you angry?” Envy asked, then flinched as if expecting her to answer the question with a blow. He screwed his face tight, bracing himself for it.

Haven closed the distance she’d put between the two of them and settled a hand on his cheek. The demon gasped at the contact. It was a feather-light touch, yet when she moved it upwards, Envy’s head followed. He was a splendid rendition of a penitent if Haven had ever seen one, looking up at her like that, leaning into her touch despite his shaking. His eyes fluttered, long eyelashes fanning his cheeks, still dotted with the dew of recent tears.

“Please,” he said. “Please don’t abandon me.”

“I told you I’m not going to do that.”

Of course, that was before she knew he was a demon prince. That he was one of the most powerful demons of all. That he was the one who had invaded the city three summers ago and used his wretched powers to compel a witch to rip out her own sister’s heart.

Envy—the concept, and the demon himself—did things to people.

Yet here he was, pliant under her hands, tears falling from his emerald eyes to trail over her fingers. He was hurt, terribly and irrevocably, begging her on his knees for salvation. Again, the irony of it all was not lost on her.

She should have turned him away. She should have never involved herself in this situation at all.

She felt a great spike of unpleasantness in her middle when she realized that she would have sent him back if she knew who he was at the start. If he’d told her that he was a demon prince. She wouldn’t have even thought about it, and would have just undone the ritual, which would rip him from this plane of existence to send him back to the one he came from.

She knew how it worked too. That when a demon was summoned, it was pulled from Hell to come to this earthly realm, and when undone, it was sent back to exactly the same place it had been taken from. Envy would have been sent back to his torment. To the place that had caused him so much pain—merely because she was too afraid.

Haven bit her lip to keep herself from sighing.

Logically, those thoughts made sense. That’s what she’d find if she were to read through her demonica books again, or if she asked any other witch in the city.

The princes were the most wicked of all.

The thought sickened her. Guilt and fear waged war inside her. She feared being hurt by him and all that he was, but she feared most of all what would happen to him if she did not remain by his side. If she were to truly abandon him, or what would have become of him had she not summoned him when she did. All her decisions lead her to this point.

“But how is this possible?” she asked.

Envy regarded her for a moment, weighing his words carefully. “I thought you knew.”

“About summoning a demon prince? I’d have needed an artifact that belonged to you in order to do it.”

“You used my ring, after all.”

Haven thinned her lips into a line, resisting from huffing out a breath. The gold ring she’d found wedged in between cobblestones in the streets. The pure gold the summoning spell had called for, and the one ingredient she had been lacking until a random stroke of luck had enabled her to finish gathering everything required. Of course it had to have been the ring of a demon prince, probably lost on one of his jaunts to the human realm.

Regular demons, Haven knew, had to be summoned. They couldn’t pass the barrier between Hell and Earth as they pleased, so it was up to the witches’ discretion on when and where to summon them. Haven had chosen the cliffside cave for its secluded nature and the difficulty in getting to and from the location so that if anything went wrong and the demon somehow escaped, it would at least be far enough away from other people for just long enough that hopefully somebody would get the warning out.

She regretted her choice upon having to cart an injured demon the entire distance, however.

Demon princes were altogether another matter. Bestowed with unimaginable power, they could between Hell and Earth as they pleased without a care for the division between them. Haven didn’t know whether to consider her summoning one of them a blessing or a curse. Envy had been trapped in the circle since he’d appeared there after entering this realm, but he’d have been free had he decided to come to Earth of his own will.

Though, judging by the state of him, that certainly hadn’t been an option.

Haven pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, I…found your ring on the street. I just needed gold for the summoning, and it was there.”

Envy looked down, letting Haven’s hand slip from his cheek. He wiped at his eyes, rimmed red from all the crying. It made the green stand out so much more.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Envy set his hands in his lap, his legs still folded under him. At least he’d stopped bowing to her, though fresh blood blossomed on the pristine bandages Haven had just wrapped around his midsection. She’d have to redo them and try to stem the worst of it.

“Do you…” Envy began, then paused. Bit his lip. Fidgeted.

Haven busied herself with picking up the bandage rolls that had fallen off the bed when the two of them had laid down earlier. Her body still remembered the silky touch of his hair under her fingertips, the way he had shivered so relentlessly. A faraway concept now. To think that she had been so close with a demon prince and not even known it.

“Do you know what I—” Envy blurted out, but the words caught in his throat. He stopped like that, mouth half-open, looking at her for the briefest of moments before turning away and burying his head in his hands.

“The witch sisters?” Haven finished, knowing what he was trying to ask and wondering why he even bothered.

Everyone knew. It was all anyone could talk about that summer, that the demon prince Envy had filled one sister with so much of his power that she had torn her own sister’s heart from her chest. That he had made her envious enough to do such a thing to own flesh and blood family.

The news had circulated in all the witch communities throughout her city as well as the surrounding villages, traveling down the river like white rapids. The non-gifted were up in arms about it as well, regarding it as a possession and a grievous murder of the highest order. The church had seen to the investigation along with the city guard and police force. It had been top news until the autumn winds carried in another demon prince, Lust, who again targeted an innocent witch. He’d entranced her, drew her in with his power and beauty, then ensorcelled her to dance the night away, burning through all her joy like a torch would do to a pile of dry wool. At dawn, the sun rose and the spell waned, leaving the girl exhausted not just physically, but of everything she ever was. A week later, she threw herself off the clock tower.

To think these sorts of beings could freely invade her world made her nauseous. To think she’d bound her soul to one of them.

Knowing all this, Haven had been cautious when summoning a demon. She never expected to have gotten a prince. The rules stated that she needed an item that belonged to the prince one was trying to summon, so Haven had been sure she wouldn’t need to deal with that mess. She didn’t account for her random stroke of luck in finding the gold ring to not be so lucky after all. Well, for her. It appeared Envy had been quite lucky to have escaped when he did. Haven wished she’d done it sooner. Maybe she could have spared him some of this pain.

“I’m sorry,” Envy said again.

He threaded his fingers through his hair. His back curved forward in such a shape that it must have strained his broken bones and still, even now, Haven ached to reach out to him to tell him to stop doing that to himself.

“Why did you do it?” Haven found herself asking before she could think better of it.

Envy flinched again. Then sank deeper into his misery until his body looked like the letter c.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t know, I don’t—I don’t know!”

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, gritting his teeth.

“I just…I don’t know, I wanted them to respect me!”

He threw his hands down at his sides with such force, it must have jostled his broken fingers. He winced and did it again, pounding his hands on the sheets. The action made a subtle poff. Haven reached out and grabbed his wrists before he could do it again.

“What? The witches?” she asked.

She couldn’t imagine him caring what the witch sisters thought of him.

“Everyone.”

Envy averted his gaze, but didn’t try to release himself from Haven’s grasp. He could have. She wasn’t holding on very hard, and while his wrists had grown thin enough for her to enclose them in one hand, he was still a demon prince and she was still a mere mortal.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated for what had to be the millionth time. “I just…”

He trailed off, giving up on the pretense of an excuse. Haven watched every miniscule emotion on his face pass through in the span of a second each. He wasn’t very good at hiding them. Neither was she.

“I should have been better.”

He spoke slowly, voiced edged with a blunted cadence. Haven held his wrists in her hands, rubbed her thumbs back and forth over them, remembering the abused skin under the bandages she’d wrapped around them. Thick bands had encircled the both of them, mottled blue and purple with a hint of green and flecks of brown. He must have been held in manacles for quite a while to have bruises like this.

“I won’t hurt you,” Haven said, because even though she’d reassured him of the very same already, she felt it needed to be said again. “You can stay here.”

Envy blinked at her, tears again beginning to pool in at the edges of his eyes. A stray one fell and Haven reached out to wipe it away.

“Thank you,” Envy said.

“No problem.”

—

(taglist in reblogs)

#😭😭😭 envyyyyu #insisting she's aware of what he did when she tells him she won't hurt him 🥺🥺#thinking abt that alt scenario where haven sends envy back despite his pleading hurts my heart #<<prev tags (me too)#demon whumpee #begging #recovery #it also scratches my royal whumpee itch ehehe

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whumpflash · 5 months

Text

here have a thing

warnings: past torture, death mention, bugs mention (mosquitos), blood, associated misery

—

They were, in theory, alone.

The group made their way through what they’d thought was a deserted mangrove. That was the primary reason they’d chosen it as the landing pad for their airship, as the sonar array hadn’t detected any other vessels in the area, nor were there any nearby settlements. They planned it this way so they could avoid coming into contact with any other people.

That was, until they came across the man stumbling through the forest, covered in blood. Leader drew the stun gun from his waist belt and pointed it at the man, who took no notice of them. Friend subtly positioned himself in front of Caretaker, but she could still see the gory images played out in front of her.

The man was alone, and wearing nothing but a tattered pair of work slacks. His chest and feet were bare, save for the grievous wounds that marred them. His body bent forward at the waist, head hanging low, and his muscles contorted with each strangled breath. He’d put his forearm to a tree next to him and seemed to be trying to regain balance or stability or energy or something—Caretaker couldn’t tell. She didn’t know how he was even alive right now.

His head was downturned and his hair, wet and sticky with blood, was so plastered to his skin that his face was indiscernible. Blood streamed down it, as well as from numerous other wounds on his body.

They were…not the sort of wounds one would get from being lost in the forest. They were too precise. Intentional.

“Stay back,” Leader said, in his usual stern but smooth baritone.

The injured man flinched, having registered the sound, but all it did was quicken his breathing. Leader took a step toward him.

Caretaker couldn’t stop staring. Eyes wide, she observed every gash, every burn, every bruise. The wounds were fresh and weeping, but it had to have been a few days at least that the man had been wandering through the forest. He was covered in mud that mixed with the crimson that dripped from his wounds, likely having infected them already. Little red dots scattered across his skin showed that he’d been food for the mosquitos, and small scratches on his arms and legs looked more like the injuries gotten from foliage rather than…direct intent.

How he got the other wounds…Caretaker didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“Who are you?” Leader asked.

The injured man didn’t respond. His arms and legs shook something fierce, and had been the entire time. Whether it was from exhaustion or fear, Caretaker didn’t know.

“Looks like he got pretty fucked up,” Friend chimed in. “He one of ours?”

Leader grumbled something under his breath. “Blackdoor would do that.”

Caretaker pushed herself out from behind Friend and moved quickly up to where Leader was standing. She put a hand on his arm and looked him in the eyes.

“Come on,” she said. “Put the gun down. He’s clearly hurt.”

Leader eyed her stonily. His gaze flicked from Caretaker’s face to the nearly doubled-over body of the injured man and back, though the hand holding the gun never wavered or shook.

“It could be a trap,” he said.

Caretaker put a hand on her hip and used the other to gesture to the mysterious man. “Does it fucking look like one?”

Leader didn’t respond, except to reach to her as she moved forward to go to the injured man. He lifted his head minutely, but with the blood and his hair plastered to his face, she couldn’t make out what he looked like. But she knew he was watching her.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you need help?”

She raised a hand to touch him but he flinched back, stumbling over a root and falling to the ground. Leader shouted and darted forward, and Caretaker felt herself being pulled away from the spot before she could even blink.

She fumbled with the roots and leaves for a bit, but Friend came up behind her and put his arms on her shoulders to steady her. Leader had one foot on the injured man’s chest and was pointing the stun gun directly at his face.

“What are you doing here, Whumpee?” he shouted.

Whumpee. the assassin.

Caretaker shivered. She’d only encountered him once, but she’d been through enough danger at the hands of Blackdoor to know they didn’t mess around and they didn’t hold back.

Whumpee held up his hands over his face. “Pl-please, please, please—you can’t—I’m not—please—I’m—,” he begged, words coming out in short gasps.

His hands shook as he tried to protect himself from whatever he thought was coming. Caretaker could still barely see his face through the blood. Leader didn’t relent, trying to question him on his intentions, but they all already knew what his objective was.

To kill Caretaker.

She stepped up beside him, ignoring Leader’s protests. “What happened to you?”

Whumpee didn’t respond. The begging seemed to take precedence and Caretaker turned to look at Leader, wondering if she had enough persuasion skills to get him to put the gun away.

“You’re hurting him,” she said.

“He was sent to kill you,” Leader said. His eyes blazed with something dark and obsessive. “He fucking killed my brother.”

Caretaker knew Leader had been consumed with revenge ever since the attack that had killed his brother, orchestrated by none other than Blackdoor’s very own assassin. She’d seen the way he stared out the window of the airship as they moved through the sky, the light in his eyes giving way to something else entirely as he talked about how he’d get his revenge. But this wasn’t the way.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve the building tension. “Yes, I know. I was there. I saw him die on that operating table too,” she began. “But we can’t kill Whumpee here. We can get vital information from him about Blackdoor.”

Friend drew up behind Caretaker and peered around her shoulder to look up at Leader. “And about Team Member! I need to know what he did with Team Member!”

Whumpee groaned, writhing in the mud under Leader’s boot still placed on his sternum. Caretaker glanced down at him and then back at Leader, not wanting to think about how much it must have hurt those bruises staining every inch of skin she could see that wasn’t already covered in mud and blood. Deep purples, blues, greens, and browns made him look more like a piece of abstract art rather than a person.

“…scaped…” Whumpee murmured, almost inaudibly.

Friend crouched down. “What’d you say?”

Whumpee turned his head weakly in Friend’s direction. “He escaped…she let him go…when she caught me.”

He panted heavily, drawing in breaths with great effort. It seemed speaking even this little bit had exhausted him.

Caretaker gave Leader a look that she hoped conveyed to him that he should at least take his foot off the assassin’s chest. Leader understood and acquiesced, stepping back. He didn’t holster the stun gun.

Whumpee took in a deep breath once Leader’s weight was off him, but then immediately whinged in pain. His face crumbled like paper. Friend twisted his mouth to the side, a look of displeased understanding on his face.

“His ribs are probably broken. Sucks to take in a breath when it feels like you’re getting stabbed,” he noted.

Caretaker crouched down next to him. “Who caught you? Did the Eighth Chasm do this?”

The Eighth Chasm leader had a temper to match her fiery red hair. Caretaker would never have expected her to do something like this, but she also had never actually met the woman, so she supposed she couldn’t make such snap judgments. Leader had been the one to feed the information to her, and as much as he liked to think of himself as rational and stoic, he often let his emotions color his perception of things.

Whumpee shook his head, creating a sloshing noise of his hair going back and forth in the mud. “Montrose family,” was all he said before letting the silence hang in the air between the four of them.

Caretaker looked up at Leader, wondering if this was someone new he would tell her about, but his face displayed as much confusion as hers likely did. Leader’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration, but he finally shook his head.

“Is that part of Blackdoor?” Friend asked.

“Why would Blackdoor do this to their own operative?” Caretaker responded to Friend’s question with another question. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Whumpee heaved another strained breath. His eyelids fluttered, closed, and then opened again after a long pause.

“They didn’t like Blackdoor operating out of New York City…said it was their territory,” Whumpee said. His bottom lip trembled, but he didn’t seem to realize. His eyes glazed over for a moment before he spoke again.

“They sent one of their operatives to kill me and Septimus…hah, and all this,” he gestured at his battered body. “This was just for fun.”

#whumpwillow #assassin whump

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